Sweetheart. He calls everyone sweetheart. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it means something anyway.
“You know what I think?” He leaned on the bar, close enough that his scent hit me—honey and vanilla and warm cinnamon—and my mouth watered. Actually watered, like I wanted to taste him.
My thighs clench together now, just remembering. God.
“I think you’re so busy taking care of everyone else that you forgot people are allowed to take care of you too.” His smile went soft. Real. “Let someone help once in a while, Tessa. You might like it.”
I stayed for an hour. Watched him work the bar, charming everyone, remembering everyone’s orders and their kids’ names and the little details of their lives. He asked about my week. Actually listened to the answer. Remembered things I’d told him months ago.
Under all that flirting, Milo actually sees people.
He sees me.
And when I left, I felt lighter than I had in months. Like maybe I was allowed to laugh. To play. To be more than the woman with the clipboard and the contingency plans.
The ache between my legs pulses again. Milo’s scent in my memory, Elijah’s hands on my skin, and my body doesn’t care that I’m supposed to be thinking about appetizer menus.
My body wants.
And then there’s Ben.
My jaw clenches automatically.
Ben Wilson.That infuriating, joke-making, commitment-phobic?—
Heat floods between my legs. Not anger—want.
Damn it.
He still hasn’t said yes to the auction. Seven times I’ve asked. Eight. Every single time, he makes a joke and disappears.
“Sorry, Tessa, my truck’s on fire. Gotta go.”
“Can’t talk, I’m allergic to clipboards. Deadly allergy. Very serious.”
He thinks that crooked smile is charming enough to get away with anything.
The worst part? It is.
His jacket is in my backseat right now. His flannel too. From when I picked up my car last week. I keep meaning to return them. I keep not.
I breathe in and there it is—leather and engine grease and woods. His scent is everywhere, in my car, on my skin. I’ve been marinating in it for a week.
My hips shift against the seat, restless and wanting.
A few days ago I spotted him ducking into the hardware store to talk to River—his sister’s alpha—and I saw my chance. Cornered him in the plumbing aisle before he even knew I was there.
“Ben Wilson.”
He spun around, saw me, and actually looked for an exit. In a dead-end aisle. Surrounded by PVC pipes.
“Tessa! Hey! I was just—I have to—there’s a thing?—”
“There’s no thing. You’re trapped.” I crossed my arms. “Bachelor auction.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for a man surrounded by toilet parts.”
“I’m not leaving until you give me an answer.”
